Heroes
by Pittsy
Summary: The real hero is always a hero by mistake. He dreams of being an honest coward just like everybody else.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

**'The real hero is always a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward just like everybody else'- Umberto Eco**

**Heroes**

The whiskey tumbler was slammed back down onto the bar forcefully. "More," he growled.

Jack complied, and shrewdly eyed the customer. The kid intrigued him. He wasn't a nosy man, but having served every type of desperation in his thirty years of owning The Britannia, he had yet to come across anyone quite like this one. Every customer was unique; each one had a different story, a different reason for drinking themselves into oblivion.

This guy wasn't that different on the surface. He recognised his type; young, definitely, no more than 20, yet older and more damaged than his youth would let on. Normally, Jack would've guessed drugs, gambling, or women. It was usually one of the three, especially for a guy so young, but with this one he could tell it went deeper. The kid had a scarred look in his eyes that he had no business wearing. That kind of hopelessness was normally reserved for the old veterans and vagrants who frequented his pub. Of course, it was really none of his business, and Jack was usually more than happy to allow his patrons to wallow away in their misery.

"Girl trouble?" He felt the words spill out of his mouth, without even thinking about it. He had a tendency to revert to the bartender stereotype whenever he opened his mouth.

The youth barked out a dry laugh and shook his head, his lips twisting into an ironic smile that ill suited his pleasant features. "If only."

Jack remained silent, frowning and idly picked up a glass that needed cleaning. Years of experience had told him that if they wanted to talk, they would.

"Don't you ever just get sick of it?"

Jack glanced up and said, "Sick of what?"

"Life."

"Everyone does, kid, at some point, but we just have to deal with it and get on with living."

The dark-haired man frowned deep into his glass. "Sometimes its not that simple."

Jack stared at him. What had happened to this lad, to disillusion him so? He sounded alarmingly like one of the old veterans who frequented the place, wearing bitterness like a cloak, after spending years with war and death as their close companions.

"People always look at me as though I'm some sort of- of _hero _or something." He sighed and took a swig of Whiskey. "I'm not a hero."

"Why?" Jack couldn't resisted asking. This kid had got him hooked now. Why in the world would he need to be a hero? There was no war going on now. No deaths. No choices between life or death, like when he was young and growing up within a society being suffocated by the fear of the Third Reich.

The man barked out a disdainful laugh. "I've known heroes. I've known great people who stand up for whats right, no matter the cost. They laughed and loved and were the strongest people I'd ever met. I'm not like them. I'm weak, and afraid. I'm no hero; I'm just me. And thats not enough."

Jack frowned and put aside the glass he'd been pretending to clean. "Well, it seems to me you have quite a dilemma, kid."

The guy clenched his fist and remained silent.

"But you've got to ask yourself one thing: why do they think you're a hero?" Jack asked, watching him intently.

"They think I'm special," the boy whispered, meeting the bartender's eyes for the first time all night. "They think that I can save them."

"Listen to me, boy. I've seen all sorts of things in my life, good and bad. I've seen battles, and, let me tell you, anyone can be a hero. I've known cowards sacrifice themselves for their country, I've seen men quake with fear and yet still stand strong in adversity. The real heroes are the ones who feel fear, who have weaknesses, who aren't perfect. But they do the right thing anyway."

The dark-haired man stared at him intently, consideringly, and Jack suddenly noticed the rip across his forehead, a faint scar that tainted his young face. "I'm just not strong enough. My parents...they would've-" His startling green eyes met the bartender's gaze. "They were heroes."

Jack smiled and picked up a dirty glass again. "You know, kid, you've got more in you than you realise. When the time comes, you'll do what's right."

He saw the young man quirk a small smile. "I guess I'll have to." The kid stared down into his glass one last time, before pushing it away from him, and getting to his feet, slightly unsteadily. "Thanks," he said, awkwardly. "I- well-"

"You're welcome, Sir," Jack replied with a small nod, knowing that he had done his duty as a bartender. He had listened. He had advised. And he could tell that the hopelessness that had hung over him like a stormcloud had abated slightly. "Please, visit us again sometime."

The sad smile the man sent him before he left the warmth of the pub for the darkness outside told Jack all he needed to know.

The bartender picked up the glass still holding a dreg of whiskey and stared at where the kid had been sat.

He wouldn't be coming back.

* * *

A/N: This is a one-shot that I wrote for a challenge on a live journal dot com community. Basically, I was paired up with an artist and she drew a picture for it and I wrote it so if you want to check out her pic go onto my profiles page where there is a link.

Also, I really really enjoyed writing this story and I felt a real sense of achievement after finishing it cos its the first proper dark fic that I've ever finished. Let me know what you think about it. Thanks.


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